


witchers can be poets, too

by brevity_ofwit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A little angst, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt has a diary!, Geralt is in love, Jaskier doesn't understand boundaries, M/M, Praise Kink, a little ooc for geralt bc i made him a poet, actually quite a lot, but it's not explicit, but shhhh it's fine geralt actually speaks a lot in the books so i took that and ran, but so very insecure, jaskier is there to the rescue!, there's like a liiiittle smut at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevity_ofwit/pseuds/brevity_ofwit
Summary: “What the fuck are you doing?”“Uhm, trying to fuck you?” Jaskier tilted his head, unsure.“Why?”“‘Why?’” he parroted, letting out an exasperated chuckle. “Why, because you obviously weren’t trying to fuck me! Though you write about it often enough, it became very clear I was going to have to do most of the heavy lifting-”Geralt flinched, something hot tearing through him. “Youread my diaries?”//Or, Geralt gets a few diaries and Jaskier, the well-meaning idiot, reads them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 244





	witchers can be poets, too

Geralt had never meant for it to become such a habit. 

He’d gotten the diary quite by accident-- a stray notebook left behind by the last resident of his room at the inn. Jaskier hadn’t wanted it, had flung it at his chest from across the room and joked, “Here. Write down whatever goes on in that head of yours, even if it is only ‘hmm’ and ‘fuck’.”

Geralt ignored him but tucked the notebook into his bag regardless. And there it had stayed for many nights until he eventually remembered and put it to use. The day hadn’t been anything noteworthy-- certainly not spectacular but not unusual for the Path of a witcher, either-- but Geralt was worked up and pissed from a shitty day. 

A fucking ghoul, as the villagers reported,  _ yes,  _ but also a fucking  _ nest _ of them, something very much not reported when he’d taken the job. And no, it wasn’t  _ exactly _ the worst-- he’d taken them down with only slightly more effort and a hesitant but necessary additional potion. Was back in town as the moon peaked above him. 

But when he’d gone to collect his due, the bastards only paid for the one ghoul and not it’s six fucking friends. So, later, when he’d located the town’s tavern, he could only afford one tankard of ale and barely a meal. Both sucked, too. Whatever had been served, it tasted like piss and was hardly any better than his own forest cooking-- unseasoned and just raw enough to be safe. And then, adding to it all, the room was hot and damp and deafening with so many bodies pressed in together, all loudly singing along to whatever the bard was leading them with this time. 

But Jaskier?

Fucking Jaskier. 

Sweaty and flushed, wet hair mussed and pushed back from his forehead, eyes downright glowing from such a receptive crowd, smile damnably bright around raunchy lyrics and stifled belches. He was positively drunk-- on wine, on merriment, on the particularly busty women pushing him against a back wall after his set ended. 

Geralt watched them while chewing dry meat off the bone, grinding it to ash between his molars and washing it down with the last of his ale. Watched her pet down his sides and lick into his mouth, watched them devour each other until thoroughly debauched and sated, and then watched some more as she slipped into the night and another took her place.

A deep unease settled into Geralt’s stomach then, and he’d left the tavern for the inn, pushing through the throng of the crowd into the night air where he could finally breathe.

Behind a closed door, he paced, cleaned his blades, paced some more, started a fire at the hearth of the small room, towelled off the grime of the day with a wet rag, dripped dry, paced again, then finally settled onto the floor with his vial bag to organise and run inventory. 

_ That’s _ when he rediscovered the leather-bound book. He set it to the side while he counted potions and materials, but every once and awhile he felt his gaze stray from the bag to the off-white pages. Eventually, he abandoned the task and grabbed the notebook. 

The first page was written on, some shit hand-writing not even he could discern, so he ripped it out and threw it to the fire, watching the flames lick it up, devour it, consume it whole-- 

Suddenly, his mind flitted back to the scene of Jaskier and that woman, of the way they’d collided so intensely, reeking of lust and the heady risk of such indecency in such proximity to others. His hands clenched, fingernails digging painfully into his palms, and then sought something to write with around the room. He found a pencil mixed in with Jaskier’s stuff, and the waft of the bard’s unmistakable perfume and many soaps had Geralt spinning, heart tripping, and utterly pissed off. 

He returned to the ground and wrote it all down-- started slow, unsure at first and unfamiliar with the words, but he caught the hang of it and three pages were soon filled. They spoke of surprise, of frustration and anger, of disgust, of confusion. 

_ They ate each other whole right in front of me and I had to sit there and take it. Bleeding and fucked over and fucking tired. I always have to just take it.  _

His day came pouring out in such a deeply cathartic way, Geralt really couldn’t help but do it again a week later. Another shitty job, another three pages filled, again and again with increasing frequency until it was almost twice a day he was turning to the notebook for relief. 

And so, that’s how Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf and “heartless” Witcher, found himself with a diary. He hid it like a dirty secret, out of sight at the bottom of his bag, only unearthing it long after Jaskier had fallen asleep. Currently, he was trying to sneak off to the market and find a new one, as the pages had finally run out. 

Jaskier, being ever observant, noticed. He never said as much, but he knew. Geralt figured this out when returning from a job he’d been cornered with while searching the many stalls for a suitable booklet. 

It was on his bed, two pencils tied neatly to its side. Not much; small, roughly bound in brown hide, and the pages weren’t as white as his last, but Geralt’s heart swelled all the same as he tucked it into his bag. He went about cleaning himself of swamp and monster blood with an inexplicably soft feeling settled into his bones. And if he settled on the room’s one bed just a little closer to Jaskier, if he fell asleep a little faster, a little deeper, if he woke up swathed by blanket and bard, that same rosy feeling rising again? 

Well, surely it was just from a good rest after such a long day. Nothing more.

_ No one has ever given me a gift. I have never slept so soundly before, either. His scent, his warmth, the hum of his life tucked so at ease against me- I was drunk on it.  _

_ But I can’t let it go any further than that. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I don’t want to face the inevitable hangover.  _

  
  


It became a tradition, between the two of them. 

Geralt would write and Jaskier would pretend not to notice, and when Geralt had used up all the pages in that book, another would appear somewhere in his belongings to be discovered. He’d amassed quite the collection of used notebooks and resorted to burning them, one by one as his bag filled, not entirely ready to part with them all at once. 

As the days passed, and summer stretched over autumn into winter, Geralt felt a rather foreign emotion rise within him. It took some time to parse out, but eventually, in the margins of his newest notebook, he put a name to it. 

_ Home. _

Soon, that was all Geralt referred to Jaskier as. His home. 

_ My home smells of the coast, of late mornings, of jasmine, of afternoon snacks, of redwood, of peaches.  _

_ My home has eyes brighter than the bluest sky, brown locks cropped close behind his ears, an unfairly white smile, strong, unsuspecting arms, nimble fingers, a giving heart. _

_ My home enjoys the finer things-- silks soft as his skin, colourful and lavishly embroidered clothes, rose petals and sweet salts in his baths that linger beneath fancy oils and expensive perfumes, gold and silver rings inlaid with glimmering gems, thick wool blankets in the dead of winter, plush bedrolls in the peak of summer. _

_ My home is always in motion, full of energy, buzzing with excitement-- for life, the smallest, blink-and-they’re-gone moments that make you fall in love with it; for love itself, grand gestures and romance, passion and the sting of its flame; for warm sunshine in the early morning; for the ancient rustle of the forest; for simple ditties and complex melodies; for travel on the open road, its promise of adventure; for loud and bawdy tales; for gentle evenings beneath a star-streaked sky; for companionship and sweet touches; for quiet, endless meaning. Insatiable, he is, but earnest and good-natured. Almost childlike, eyes wide and observant, faith unbroken, quick to trust, naive with wonder. He roams the continent searching for experience, desperate for it in a way only those with an end can be. _

It took him four days to write that one. Geralt was no poet and knew it was nothing like the lyrics Jaskier had composed-- beautiful, sometimes haunting, but unforgettable. Regardless, he still thought it was the best thing  _ he’d _ ever written, limited skill be damned. 

And so, Jaskier became his home. 

Geralt had never had the luxury of such a space before. 

Maybe once, as a child, but being so unwanted had a way of choking off any real sense of belonging with his mother. Never once in the trials, not in those oppressive halls of Kaer Morhen. That was just a place he resided when the winters were harsh, and often he found that the confines of the crumbling building made him feel even more out of place. Like how the many fossilised sea creatures and shells embedded into the walls of the castle did not belong, seawater having long since abandoned the land around the keep; Geralt did not belong, either. Didn’t fit in where he was, with the others. He was fundamentally different, had been  _ made _ to be different. Not even those he was closest to-- Lambert, Eskel, nor the council of the closest thing to a father he had, Vesemir-- could ever really bring him any sense of peace. 

But Jaskier? 

Fucking Jaskier, always the exception. 

Gods, Geralt hadn’t the words in any language to describe how he felt in the bard’s presence. How right it felt, beside him. They just fit, two odd ends tangled together by whatever higher power saw to it. And more than that, in a carnal, primal level Geralt would sooner die than reveal, they  _ fit _ \-- huddled around each other like puzzle pieces beneath the stars, Jaskier’s head on Geralt’s heart, his fingers tracing strange patterns around the scars until one of them fell asleep. Geralt didn’t need to be a poet to appreciate that. 

And life with Jaskier, the routine of waking, eating, packing up in the morning, hitting the road, finding shelter where they could when the sky grew dark-- it was something Geralt had started to crave.

Domestic as it was, he wanted this life with Jaskier. 

He was pretty sure Jaskier did, too. 

However, he couldn’t tell how far the bard’s affections really went. Yes, he obviously cared. And sure, he stuck around the witcher, gave him companionship Geralt never knew he needed, righted his tarnished reputation, made him laugh and put up with his own shitty humour, even cleaned him and treated his wounds after hunts. Jaskier gave him so much, cared for him in a way Geralt had never been before, but never indicated that he wanted anything in return. This drove Geralt crazy, made him insecure and hesitant to return any affection.

_ My home is everything. He is  _ _ everything _ _ and deserves everything, but I cannot provide. For what could I, an unkindly creature, a world-hardened forager, a scarred and restless beast, a stranger to love and affection-- what could I give? What could he want, from me, a monster in my own right? He gives me so much and I am afraid of it. Of what it means. Of what it will lead to; a steady stream of resentment, anger at always being the one to give but never one to receive. Relationships, partnerships, whatever it is we have, they aren’t just a quid-pro-quo-- but aren’t they? You must love to be loved, so in some sense wouldn’t one need to  _ _ be _ _ loved to keep loving? When will the dam break, when will he finally have had enough, when will he run out of kindness to give and leave? _

It hurt to think about, Jaskier leaving him. But it was inevitable. He was a hard man to love, Geralt knew this, and in turn, loving was hard for him. He could never ask for Jaskier to endure such a trial as that. So Geralt would settle for what he could get, savour his time with the bard, and when the time came, he would let Jaskier go.

_ My home will one day leave me, and I will no longer get to call him that, but I will always love him. He will always own part of my heart, will always have a home in me, beside me, even if all I have is a fire, scant shelter, and whatever animal strayed too close as food. _

_ It’s too much to ask, but with patience, I could get there. I could learn to give as freely, to shower him with praise instead of keeping silent, or insulting him to cover. And Gods, if only he could love me back. I would learn to press those sweet nothings into his skin, to worship. I am nothing if not a quick study, but I would take this slow. Under his practised guidance and the night sky, I would learn him slowly, thoroughly. Become what he is to me so that he might never leave me.  _

_ Anything _ _ , just let him never leave me.  _

_ Anything _ _ , just let me keep the only home I’ve ever known. _

Secretly, selfishly, he knew part of the reason he wouldn’t ask was to save himself. Jaskier was human, and Geralt, though originally made of the same stock, had too much life ahead of him for the bard to keep up. Jaskier would one day die, and then Geralt would be well and truly alone. Who knows if he’d ever recover from such a loss.

But then, quite without regard to Geralt’s misgivings and probably by some miracle-- or perhaps Destiny was reading his diary entries-- they tumbled into bed together. 

Well, it wasn’t actually in a bed. And it wasn’t exactly sex.

Geralt was bathing-- really, Jaskier was bathing him, running soapy hands through his hair, detangling, clearing it of dirt. Then he was rubbing down his back, working out the knots built up in his muscles from sleeping on hard ground for two weeks straight. It was heavenly. Calloused fingers digging almost painfully into his skin then smoothing down his spine in apology. It drove him half-mad with want, but he kept his hands firmly at his sides beneath the water. After a few moments, Jaskier sighed behind him and his steady ministrations disappeared. A protesting hum bubbled in Geralt’s throat but then, suddenly, he found himself with a lap full of Jaskier. 

A very  _ naked _ Jaskier.

Instinctively, Geralt’s hands came to rest on the bard’s hips but he pulled back last minute, hovering with unsurety. Jaskier threw his arms around Geralt’s neck and ground down against him, dragging a choked groan from Geralt’s throat.

“Gods, Geralt, just  _ touch me _ ,” he breathed, circling his hips faster. Geralt’s hands fell, one sliding around to palm his ass and push him down harder. Jaskier moaned. 

“Yes, like that,” he panted, leaning forward to capture the witcher up in a kiss. It left Geralt reeling, brain having not quite caught up to his body. “Fuck, Geralt, _yes_.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt moaned. “J-Jas-”

“Yeah, call my name, just like that darling,” the bard encouraged, mouthing against his throat. “So good for me.”

“Jas,” Geralt tried again, letting go of his ass to push at his chest. “Jaskier, wait.”

“Shit, sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, immediately withdrawing. Jaskier let his hands fall free from Geralt’s hair. “What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

_ No, not really, _ he thought. But then again, he didn’t even know what the fuck was happening. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Uhm, trying to fuck you?” Jaskier tilted his head, unsure. 

“Why?”

“‘Why?’” he parroted, letting out an exasperated chuckle. “Why, because you obviously weren’t trying to fuck  _ me _ ! Though you write about it often enough, it became very clear I was going to have to do most of the heavy lifting-”

Geralt flinched, something hot tearing through him. “You  _ read my diaries _ ?” 

“Well, yes,” Jaskier admitted, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He couldn’t quite meet the witcher’s eyes. “But I immediately regretted it!”

Geralt didn’t hear him. He was speeding through every word he could remember writing down, every confession, every desire-- dear God. He’d written  _ everything _ down in those notebooks. Every secret thought, things he’d never told anyone, things he'd never even wanted to. Fucking lords above, he’d bared his soul to every piece of paper and Jaskier had read them. 

_ Jaskier had read them all.  _

He felt his face flush with mortification, but his veins ran cold, blood nearly frozen from dread, from anger. He was so _angry_. He felt fucking pissed off and deceived and he felt--

Betrayed. 

Never in his life would he have thought Jaskier could betray him like this. 

And hadn’t he been the one to give him the diary? All those months ago, even if through a joke, Jaskier had been the one to encourage Geralt to write. And Geralt was always so secretive about it, he thought the implied “off-limits” was apparent. He’d been wrong. 

All at once, he was shoving Jaskier off of him and rising out of the tub, rushing about the room drying himself and pulling on clothes. Jaskier fell back with a thud but was quick to follow, shouting for him to slow down, to wait, to  _ just hear him out-- _

“ _ Enough! _ ” Geralt roared, rounding on the bard. Jaskier shrank back, alarmed. “You had  _ no right _ to those words. They were  _ private _ , Jaskier.”

Another thought occurred to him, just as Jaskier opened his mouth to defend himself, more horrifying than the original betrayal. Because what if Jaskier had read his diaries, had laughed over his desperate confessions, and then decided to toy with Geralt? What if the night had all been a game? Some sick version of entertainment for the bard, to see how far he could push the witcher before he snapped.

He didn’t want to believe it, but couldn’t help asking. Jaskier recoiled like he’d been slapped, eyes wide and horrified. 

“Geralt,” he breathed, chest heaving. “ _ Geralt, no. _ I would  _ never _ \-- not that, not to anyone-- I would  _ never hurt you like that _ .”

“But you’d betray me,” Geralt pointed out, buttoning his shirt and tucking it into his pants. Jaskier apparently didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow.”

“Geralt, wait! Don’t go, not like this!” Jaskier pleaded, rushing after him. He all but vaulted over the bed just to get between Geralt and the door, hands outstretched, pleading frantically. “Geralt, I’m sorry. I’m honestly, truly ashamed of what I did. I didn’t know-- I didn’t think--”

“You never fucking do, Jaskier,” Geralt growled, pushing past him. Jaskier wouldn’t be budged; he let Geralt slam him against the door in frustration. 

“Please, please, just don’t leave me like this. I didn’t mean to hurt you, to  _ betray _ you.” His eyes were wide and bloodshot from tears and panic and Geralt hated to see it, but couldn’t let himself reach out to soothe him. His whole body felt heavy, leaden, unbudging except to propel him forward, out the door,  _ away from Jaskier.  _ “Geralt,  _ Geralt _ ,  _ please _ . Just talk to me. O-or don’t talk to me, glare at me, hit me, toss me around--”

“No,” Geralt barked, instantly horrified that Jaskier would rather be beaten than let Geralt leave him. Something in his chest sparked, brought him back to life, set his heart thumping madly against his chest. It was begging him to pay fucking attention. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, softer.

Jaskier sobbed openly at that and fell forward into Geralt’s arms, which wrapped around him despite himself. “I’m so immeasurably sorry. Please, just sit and let me explain myself.”

Reluctantly, he guided Jaskier down to the bed then sat beside him, nearly a foot of space kept between them. Jaskier noticed and sighed pitifully. He reached out to Geralt, hand soft against his cheek, but Geralt ducked away from it and stared at the opposite wall so he wouldn’t see any more tears spill onto Jaskier’s cheeks. 

“Explain,” Geralt prompted, equally wary as impatient. 

“Right, of course,” Jaskier started, pulling himself together with a snuffle. “I didn’t read them right away, didn’t actually think about it until you’d start collecting them in your saddlebag. And I began to wonder what you’d do with them, if they’d all just sit there, unread, forever, as you travelled The Path. And I thought that was incredibly sad, even more so when you told me you were going to burn them to make room for more.”

_ They were never supposed to be read. That wasn’t their point. _

“So I waited until you were called for a long hunt-- those two wyverns that lead you so far East of town you weren’t back for a week? Well, before you’d gone, I made sure to hide your diaries, and then tore through them faster than any book I’d ever read.” Jaskier paused for breath, uneven and laboured, telling Geralt he’s started crying again. “And oh, what you’d written broke my heart. Do you really think you’re so unworthy of love?”

Geralt flinched again, pushing off the bed and moving to the other side of the room. He stood with his back turned, fist against the wall, staring out the room’s window into the night. He heard shuffling behind him and then a soft hand fell to his shoulder, simply resting there. 

“You're an extraordinary man, Geralt. Not a monster, nor an unlovable beast. In fact, I'm positive I've never met anyone so human,” Jaskier told him, sounding every bit as sincere. “You care so deeply, much more than I’d ever thought or you’d ever reveal. And sweet Melitele, can you write. I never could have imagined, for how little you actually speak--”

“I’m no poet,” Geralt interrupted, thinking back to all the shit he’d actually spouted between entries. “Nothing like you.”

“Perhaps not,” Jaskier chuckled lightly, now tugging at his shoulder. Geralt allowed himself to be turned, but still refused to meet blue eyes. “But I have never before been so moved, not by anything-- but perhaps I’m biased.”

Geralt cocked his head.

“Love is blind, so they say,” Jaskier crooned. Then, a little sheepishly, “Love has no boundaries.”

Geralt looked at him then, and Jaskier’s other hand came to cradle his face. A more serious look befell him and he said, “Geralt, I in no way meant to hurt or cross you with my actions, but I do not regret what I did. Not when it led me to discover that you love me back just as ardently as I love you.”

The world stilled around him. Geralt could feel the earth halt, could hear the rustle of the trees outside had died. Even Jaskier’s tears had slowed to a stop. And then, like the rushing of a wave, it all came crashing back to life. The earth resumed its spinning, birdsongs floated to them through the wind. Geralt inhaled deeply. Smelt no deceit, just delicate flowery things, a careful, careful love. 

“Do you mean it?” he asked anyway, needing to hear it, needing to be sure. 

“Never meant anything more in my life,” Jaskier assured. He stepped closer to Geralt, then, so close their breath mingled between them. He could feel the heat radiating from the bard and shivered. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier called. A delicate, fond smile. “Geralt, I love you.”

That was all he needed. Leaning forward, he closed the distance between them. Jaskier kissed him back enthusiastically, more than happy to be swept up into Geralt’s arms and carried back to the bed. 

They  _ did _ have sex, then.

Made love above the covers, face to face and slow, deliberately unhurried. Like they were learning each other all over again, what made them tick, what they liked and what they didn’t, what made Jaskier arch off the bed with a cry and what made Geralt stutter and choke on a moan. 

Geralt had only ever known rough and hard and fast. The women at brothels only ever let it be that, always desperate to get the act over with and the fearsome witcher out of their bed. 

But Jaskier?

Fucking Jaskier. 

Jaskier begged him to be slow, to treat him gentle and kind. Cried out and hummed and heralded him with praises as he went.

“I want to feel it, feel all of you, for as long as possible.” 

So Geralt took his time working Jaskier open. Kept a careful eye on his face, watching, absorbing, learning. When he crooked his finger, Jaskier’s whole body shook with it, lifting from the sheets only to plop down again with a throaty moan. When he added a second finger, then a third, Jaskier would push down against his hand, close his eyes and bite his lower lip and when he met Geralt’s eyes again he looked so worked up, so needy and wanting.

“Let yourself have this, darling.”

And when Geralt was finally satisfied with his work, sure he’d learned everything he could for that moment, he tried. Kissed up Jaskier’s body until he got to his lips, settled heavily above him, bracketed him in with his arms. Jaskier’s hands made quick work of getting tangled in his hair.

“Make love to me, Geralt.”

And so he did. Jaskier smoothed his hands down Geralt’s sides to ground him, caressing him the whole time with so much love it nearly split his chest. And when Geralt found a pace that made his toes curl and Jaskier shout-- a final piece of himself shifted into place. Jaskier could tell too, and raised a hand to brush away the hair from Geralt’s face, tucking it behind his ear. 

“I love you,” Jaskier told him, breathless. “You are worthy of this, you deserve this-- you’re so amazing, Geralt, I can’t fathom it.”

Hot emotion bubbled in Geralt’s throat and begged to be let out, but he couldn’t speak, too choked up. Just leaned down and kissed the words into the bard’s mouth, hoping to convey as much emotion as he was feeling. But Jaskier wasn’t done yet. With some gentle nudging, he had Geralt on his back and was working his hips sedately, kissing every inch of Geralt he could reach. 

“So good,” Jaskier panted against his neck. “You’re so good to me, make me feel so good.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt called hoarsely, so close he could hardly think. “Jaskier,  _ fuck.” _

“Gods, Geralt,” he moaned, “I love you  _ so much _ ,” and Geralt, overwhelmed and aching, came with a cry. With a hand wrapped around himself, Jaskier followed soon after, then slumped against his chest uncaring of the mess between them. Geralt wrapped his arms around the bard and kissed his hair, and Jaskier responded in kind, turning his head to kiss at his bicep, then his shoulder, his collarbone, his adam’s apple. Reluctantly, he sat up and pulled off Geralt with a hiss, raising from the bed to grab a rag from the washroom and wipe them both down. 

Afterwards, he settled down beside Geralt and held the witcher to his chest, petting his hair softly. Geralt was so lost in the affection, the soft humming of a lullaby Jaskier had taken up, that he hardly noticed he was falling asleep until the bard spoke and roused him. 

“I could never resent you,” Jaskier murmured into his hair. He brushed it back and kissed his forehead tenderly. “And I would certainly never leave you. You can push me away and say mean things and pretend you don’t have feelings, but I can see past all that. I don’t care how you show it, but I know you love me, too. And that’s enough.”

“You deserve the world, could have it with little effort-- yet you choose me?”

“I choose you because you  _ are _ my world, dear heart.” 

Geralt hid his face in Jaskier’s chest once more, unable to stop a few tears from escaping. In all his life, he’d never been cared for like this. The world had hated him from the beginning, had beaten and broken him down, shredded his spirit. And then this indescribable man had bounded into his life, a chattering flurry of excitement and beauty, had opened his heart up for the witcher to make room in, had stayed by his side regardless of his foul temper and harsh words. Geralt felt so undeserving, but so, so grateful.

Jaskier made no sound, just brushed his hair and pressed kisses along his forehead until finally, Geralt wore himself out and fell asleep wrapped in Jaskier’s arms, happy and safe and so at home. 

“Sweet dreams, my love,” Jaskier whispered, then followed his witcher into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. The inspiration came to me at 2 am disguised in a very cloudy dream (that also included Shrek, but I don't care to remember how exactly), so I knew I had to translate it to a fic. 
> 
> This is my first fic for The Witcher fandom, but not my last! I have a ton of ideas for more. SO, subscribe and stay tuned for more (?) possibly. Probably. I have all this free time from quarantine and nothing else to do (besides math hw but shhh) so def expect something.
> 
> Anyway, y'all know the drill; likes and comments feed my will to live and write. But don't feel pressured. Sometimes, I feel that when an author directly asks for a response, my comments read as forced or insincere. For this, all I ask is that if the inspiration should so strike you, please leave me a comment telling me what you liked. Literally anything, even just several exclamation points or two emojis. A single letter. Five paragraphs in Tolkien Elvish.  
> A n y t h i n g. 
> 
> Thank you! You can find me on Tumblr, but I won't tell you where! :)
> 
> (Okay, I will. @ sarahh-tonin. I only wrote that to sound quirky and mysterious.)


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